


you say im not alone, but i am petrified

by mildlyobsessive



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Drabble, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Religious Conflict, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildlyobsessive/pseuds/mildlyobsessive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn't care how he felt, they cared how he acted.  How he made them look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you say im not alone, but i am petrified

**Author's Note:**

> I totally didn't just write my own thoughts from Tyler's pov haha no that would be ridiculous what are you talking about

They didn't care how he felt, they cared how he acted. How he made them look.

It was the thought that never quite left Tyler's mind, always present but never ready to be spoken. 

But it was the truth, that was certain. It had been proven time and time again, with every "did you take your medication, Tyler?"

"All you care about is yourself, Tyler"

"There's no reason to cry, Tyler." (Accompanied with an eye roll and barely contained disgust, of course)

"Don't tell your friends about any of it, Tyler. The therapist, the meds, nothing. It's none of their business. Besides, they'll just use it against you."

For once, just fucking _once_ , he would like them to ask "How are you feeling, Tyler?" Not like he'd actually answer them honestly. No, he'd do what he'd always done; avoid eye contact and reassure them that he was fine.

Which, he was, he supposed, if fine meant daydreaming about tall buildings and sharp blades, or developing a habit of counting how many pills were in the medicine cabinet, _just in case_. 

But that was why, of all the ill-timed comments, the ones about how selfish he was stung the most. Because his family didn't understand, were simply incapable of comprehending, that if Tyler was as conceited as they all said, he would be six feet under by now.

They were clueless as to how many nights had passed where everything had overwhelmed him, where quitting seemed by far the best option he had. But he'd always stopped himself, because the thought of his little sister or someone equally innocent walking in to find his corpse was too horrible, too unfair. So here he was; still alive, if you could call it that, still drawing breath and consuming resources and doing all those things that it was apparently so vital for him to have the motivation to do.

And joy oh joy, he still got to pop those little blue pills every day, the tablets that made him feel content but artificial, a water balloon filled with air. He hated the feeling, like he was some silicone Ken doll that was forced to keep smiling against his will. 

He was so even, so flat, so _boring_. God, did normal people _always_ feel like this? His entire life he'd been a roller coaster, moods swinging up and down and left and ride in an unpredictable pattern, but all of a sudden he was on the interstate, and it was nothing but straight and flat as far as the eye could see.

Stable, yes, but also empty.

Empty and alone, as he had absolutely no one to talk to about what went on inside his sorry excuse for a brain. His parents had been abundantly clear on the subject; absolutely no one was too know. His mother said that it was for his own good, that his friends would take advantage of his 'condition,' but Tyler knew that was bullshit. They just wanted to protect their reputation, to keep being seen as the stock photo for the ideal conservative Christian family. The Josephs were the ones that went to church three times a week, the ones that sent their children to bible camps and missions trips. And there was nothing wrong with that, really, there wasn't. But Tyler was nothing more than a stain on their image, a mistake, a screw up. Flawless families didn't have kids with scars on their wrists and bottles of anti anxiety meds in the cupboard. 

So he kept quiet.

His family loved him, he knew that. But he wasn't their priority. They cared if he smiled on cue, said 'yes ma'am' at the right times, and sang the worship songs like he actually meant it. And if he happened to feel like jumping off a bridge along the way, well, that was his problem.


End file.
